Trouble at the Wedding (22 page)

“Sorry.” He smiled at her, hands in his pockets, looking rakishly handsome in his tuxedo. “Woolgathering, were you?”

“I was just watching the crowd and thinking.”

“Of me?”

She lifted her chin. “How conceited you are!”

“It's not conceit,” he corrected, giving her a rueful look. “It's wishful thinking.”

“In this case, it's not. I
was
thinking of you. And,” she added to keep him from guessing why, “I was also thinking about Lady Edith. It's her first season and her first ball, and instead of dancing, she's sitting over there with the other wallflowers.”

He groaned, moving as if to use Annabel as a shield between him and the chairs against the wall. “Well, don't let her see me.”

“It's probably already too late. And since you are already here, and the first dance is ending now, it's a perfect opportunity for you to make the poor girl's evening a success. Go over and ask her for the next dance.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I don't want to give the poor girl any false hopes.”

“That won't happen. She has a crush on you, yes, but to get over it, she needs some real suitors. If you danced with her, all the young men would see that, and want to dance with her, too.”

“Possibly,” he allowed, “but why do I have to be the one to lead the way?”

“Because you're a duke. It's your job to lead the way.”

He made a face. “You want me to dance with Edith, but you refuse to dance with me yourself? Annabel, I can't tell you what a blow that is to my vanity.”

She smiled sweetly. “Twenty blows to your vanity wouldn't make a dent.”

“Ouch,” he said with a grimace, and then his expression once again grew thoughtful. “You really are serious about this.”

“Yes, because I know how she feels. I've been her, Christian. The wallflower who doesn't get asked to dance is just like the girl who never gets invited to the party. The reasons are different, but the feeling is the same, and it's miserable.”

He leaned a little closer. “If I did dance with her, would that please you?”

She caught her breath. “Why should that matter?”

“It matters to me, Annabel.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “You should do it because it's a nice thing to do.”

“Ah, but I'm not a nice man.” As if to prove it, his gaze lowered to her mouth, and he said, “I'll dance with Edith, if you dance with me first.”

“No.”

“Why not? Afraid once you're in my arms, you'll succumb to my charms?”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. “No,” she countered at once. “I can't dance with you because I'm engaged for the next dance.”

At that moment, she spied Mr. Wilbur approaching to claim her, and she eyed the bespectacled bird enthusiast with relief.

“Later then?”

“Sorry,” she said, adding the lie before she could stop herself, “but I'm engaged for all my dances.”

She joined Mr. Wilbur, not feeling the least bit guilty about her lie. Confirming Christian's guess that she was afraid to dance with him because she wanted him was the last thing she needed. As for how she was going to fill up the rest of her dance card, she'd worry about that later.

Chapter Fourteen

A
nnabel's relief at escaping Christian was short-lived. It lasted about ten seconds.

She walked the few steps onto the dance floor, turned toward her partner, and took one glance back, just in time to see Edith's hunched, dejected pose and Christian's pause beside her chair. Annabel watched as he held out his hand to the girl. And when Edith lifted her astonished face to see just who was asking her to dance, Annabel felt a pang of happiness twist her own heart.

The music began, and as Mr. Wilbur swirled her across the floor in the first waltz of the night, Annabel tried to force that burst of happiness into its proper perspective. Though he had done it to please her, it was still just a gesture, one that cost him nothing and changed nothing. Yet, despite these efforts to prop up her protective walls and keep him at bay, Annabel could feel her determination to stay away from him softening a little more with each moment.

Desperate, she dragged George out onto the floor when her next free dance came up. She didn't know if Christian was watching, but she didn't want to give him any opportunity to claim her for a dance and shred the last of her resolve.

After the supper, she was introduced to Isabel's brother, Edward, and she could see at once where he'd gotten his nickname of Tiger. He had a tawny, windblown handsomeness that was impossible to ignore. In addition, even without Isabel's warnings, she'd have seen the wandering gleam in his eye and the dangerous charm in his manner. Still, though she enjoyed looking into Tiger's roguish blue eyes while they danced, laughing at his jokes, and happily accepting his brazen compliments, she felt nothing beyond the simple pleasure any girl felt at a man's admiration. There was none of the melting sweetness and hot desire she felt every time she was with Christian. It was a relief, she supposed, to discover she wasn't susceptible to
every
bad boy who came her way.

Afterward, as Tiger started to escort her back to her place, she caught a glimpse of Christian through the crowd, standing with her family, watching her, waiting to see if she did indeed have a partner for the next dance. She didn't, and she was seized by sudden panic that made her stop dead in her tracks.

“Miss Wheaton?” Tiger stopped beside her, hovering solicitously. “Are you unwell?”

She cast another glance toward Christian. He was looking at her as he had that night at Lord Kayne's dinner party, his desire for her plainly written on his face, and she could feel an answering hunger for him pulling her like a magnet. She took an involuntary step toward him, then realized it and stopped again, turning abruptly toward her dance partner. “I need some air,” she said to Tiger. “Will you excuse me, please?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned away and ducked out the nearest set of French doors onto the terrace. She went down the steps and into the gardens of Kayne House, gulping in deep breaths of cool night air as she made for the back of the gardens and ducked into a boxwood maze that would obscure her from anyone's view.

She walked, turning corners between the tall hedges without any thought to where she was going as she tried to compose herself, but she soon felt hopelessly lost, not only within the maze, but in her own heart. What did she really want?

As if in answer to that question, she emerged into the center of the maze, and found Christian there, leaning back against the edge of the fountain behind him, as if waiting for her, as if knowing she would find him, as if it was all inevitable. Perhaps he was right.

She took a step toward him, desire drawing her, but then she stopped. “We're supposed to be staying away from each other,” she said, reminding them both.

He straightened away from the fountain. “That's what you keep saying, but I can't . . .” He paused to take a deep breath. “I can't stay away from you.”

“I don't think you're trying very hard.”

“No,” he agreed, and started walking toward her. “I'm not.”

She felt another jolt of panic, but she could not seem to make herself turn and leave. She stood there, held by his gaze like a butterfly on a pin, shaking inside as he came closer, fighting not to step forward and meet him halfway. “If anyone sees us—”

“Dance with me. I know you already have a partner for every dance,” he added, smiling faintly, demonstrating he'd seen right through her lie, “but that's too bad. As your trustee, I shall tell him to sod off.”

“It's just a dance,” she whispered as he halted in front of her. “Why do you want it so badly?”

“Isn't it obvious? I want any excuse to touch you. Even if it's in a room full of people.” Slowly, ever so slowly, as if he feared she'd bolt again, he reached out, taking her hand to entwine their gloved fingers. His other hand settled on her waist. “This is better, of course.”

“We shouldn't be out here.”

His hands tightened, pulling her closer. “I know.”

Desperate, she tried one last time to fight the inevitable. “I don't want to dance with you.”

“All right,” he said, and let go of her hand, bending his head. “We won't dance.”

He kissed her, and at the soft, warm contact of his mouth, pleasure bloomed in her like a flower opening to sunshine, pleasure so great that her lips parted at once. Tacit permission, and he took advantage of it, cupping the nape of her neck as his other arm tightened around her waist. He deepened the kiss, his tongue entering her mouth, tasting her again and again.

The kisses were slow, deep, drugging kisses that melted away good sense and lessons learned. She felt as if she were sinking down, down, down into a sweet, blissful oblivion.

With one arm around her waist, he slid his other hand from her nape, gliding down her spine and over her hip. He grasped folds of her skirt, working his way beneath layers of silk and muslin.

Stop him
, she thought, but even as that thought passed through her mind, she curled her fingers around the lapels of his jacket, drawing him closer.

Under her skirts, his hand touched her hip, his palm so hot that his touch seemed to sear her through his glove and her thin nainsook drawers. She moaned against his mouth, and he stirred at the sound, his arm tightening around her waist, his hips pressing against hers. She felt the hardness of him, the need, and in a momentary flash of sanity, she remembered where they were, and what she would lose if they were caught. If she was going to stop him, she had to do it now, before every shred of her resolve and her pride were gone and she made another very bad choice.

She broke the kiss, turning her face away, feeling as if the move were ripping her apart.

“I don't want this!” She brought her arms between them to push his apart. The moment he released her, she stepped back, shaking her head. “I don't want you.”

He didn't move. He simply looked at her, breathing hard, and it seemed forever before he spoke. “That's a lie, Annabel. And we both know it.”

The tenderness in his voice was almost her undoing. “I don't want to want you! Is that a better way of putting it?”

He rubbed his hands over his face as if trying to clear his head and think. “I'm not sure I understand the distinction,” he muttered.

“Wanting you is pointless.” As she spoke, the euphoria and desire of the past few stolen moments began giving way, bringing back the painful reality. “There's no future in it.”

He took a step forward, reaching for her, but she evaded the move and his arm fell to his side. “Why does there have to be a future?” he asked.

“Because there does!” She took a deep breath, striving to be clear with him and with herself about what she wanted in life. “I want marriage. I want a husband and children. I want a man who respects me. A man who thinks I'm good enough to be his wife.”

“And you believe I don't think so?” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “If I did marry you, how would that prove I think you're good enough? Did Rumsford prove it by proposing marriage to you? If you don't already believe you're good enough—whatever the bloody hell that means—then nothing I say or do will make a difference. Don't you see that?”

“What I see is that men want certain things from every woman, but I want—I deserve—a man willing to offer me more than that. And we both know you aren't that man.”

He didn't deny it, and that confirmation of what she already knew hurt more than she would have thought possible. She took another step back, knowing she had to leave before she did the most embarrassing thing of all and started to cry.

“Stay away from me, Christian. I've made plenty of mistakes in my life, Lord knows, but I try real hard not to make the same ones twice. Please, please stay away from me.”

She whirled around, grasping fistfuls of silk in her fists, and ran away. Running seemed to be the only defense she had left.

C
hristian stared after her, lust raging through him, his body rebelling against what had just happened, even as his mind fought to accept it. He felt torn apart, bereft, and worse—he felt helpless. Because what she said was true.

Her words ringing in his ears, he watched her go, striving with everything he had not to follow her, grab her, kiss her until she didn't have the strength to fight him anymore.

But he knew he couldn't do what he wanted. It was perfectly right of her to want a husband and children, to want the respect that society would confer on her if she made a good marriage. He might think marriage a meaningless institution, but most people didn't, including Annabel. And because of his actions, she'd been deprived of one chance at marriage already, and though in his opinion Rumsford had been no prize, the fact remained that he'd interfered in her life when he'd had no right to do so, and he still had the obligation to right that wrong.

On the other hand, this damnable situation could not go on, or he would lose his sanity, and he knew there was only one course open to him.

He had to find her a husband. It was the only decent thing to do. He drew a deep, steadying breath and hoped doing the decent thing didn't break him.

A
nnabel didn't see Christian for two days. He stayed in town, slept at his club, and sent no word of when he would return to Cinders.

After what had happened at the May Day Ball, she ought to be relieved by his absence, but she wasn't. On the contrary, she missed him, and the fact that he was only doing what she'd asked him to do just made her feel more miserable about it all.

“Now, Annabel,” Sylvia said from her place at the foot of the dining table, “I thought we might go to the theater tomorrow night.”

Annabel stirred, lifting her gaze from her plate of bacon and eggs, trying to drum up an interest in going to the theater. “What's the play?”

“They're doing
A Bit South of Heaven
—that's Sebastian Grant's latest play—at the Old Vic. Sebastian is the Earl of Avermore, you know, and a very good friend of Christian's. It's a bit late in the day, but Sebastian always keeps a few tickets in reserve for his friends. Or we could go to the opera. Which would you prefer, Annabel?”

“Either one,” she answered politely, and returned her attention to pushing eggs around on her breakfast plate. “Whatever you'd like.”

“It's Wagner at Covent Garden,” Sylvia went on, as if that might persuade her to form an opinion. “Which is always good, but I do wish they would perform something modern—Puccini, perhaps.”

“Oh, Mama,” Dinah cried, entering the conversation, “may I come, too? It's bad enough that I can't go to balls, but I'd love to see a play or go to the opera.”

“You're only eleven, darlin',” Henrietta reminded. “Way too young for the theater.

Annabel felt impelled to speak for her sister. “Oh, let her come, Mama. One late night won't hurt her.”

“I agree with Annabel,” George said. “Why shouldn't Dinah come if she likes?”

“I agree, too,” Uncle Arthur put in. “We're in London. Might as well let the girl see some things and enjoy herself while we're here.”

“Many girls do attend the theater in London, Mrs. Chumley,” Sylvia said. “Not the opera, though, I'm afraid, especially not Wagner. The Ring operas make for too long an evening for a young girl. So, the theater it is, then?” She glanced around the table, and at the nods of agreement, she went on, “I shall write to Avermore this morning, and see if he has tickets to spare for tomorrow night.”

Whether Sebastian Grant had tickets, however, became immediately irrelevant, for the discussion was interrupted, and by the last person Annabel would have expected.

“Sorry, Sylvia,” Christian said, entering the dining room. “But I fear I must usurp your plans. Good morning, everyone.”

Annabel straightened in her chair, watching as he strode past the dining table to the sideboard where breakfast had been set out in warming dishes, but though he nodded politely to her mother and gave Dinah's hair a tweak as he passed them, he didn't glance toward her side of the table at all.

“Usurp my plans?” Sylvia echoed as he helped himself to bacon and eggs. “We haven't seen you for two days,” she reminded him with mock severity. “And now you come waltzing in at breakfast, daring to usurp my plans?”

He paused to give her an apologetic glance over one shoulder. “I am the duke,” he said, and went back to filling his plate. “I'm entitled.”

“Well, I have to admit I'm delighted by this sudden interest in the social whirl, dear brother,” Sylvia said, laughing. “But what's in the wind?”

“I've invited the Duke of Trathen to dine with us tomorrow night, and I've reserved a dining room for us at the Savoy.”

“Trathen?” Sylvia stared at her brother in surprise. “But we barely know the man.”

“You barely know him,” Christian corrected as he brought his plate to the table and sat down. “I've known him since Oxford. Fine fellow. Wealthy, influential, honorable.” He reached for the jam pot. “Unmarried, too.”